Chapter Text
The hairline cracks on the cell wall allude to deeper structural damage. The strength of a normal human would be insufficient in sending the whole wall crumbling, but could severely damage the drywall. The cinder blocks underneath are worn, evidenced by the water stains. It wouldn’t require Bane’s strength to break through; a little more than human strength would do the trick.
Bane’s cell is reinforced with steel. This cell would be as well if they knew who it contained, but as Bruce Wayne, he is treated to a large box with low security. He hates the special treatment, and moreover the deeper problems it is a symptom of, but accepted it with a smile. He knows Arkham’s flaws better than most; in this identity, he has financed attempts at improvements, and in the other, he has been in these cinder block cells more times than he can count for just as many reasons.
Bruce Wayne checked himself into Arkham Asylum last week. In theory, he could have resumed his therapy with Doctor Thompkins. He could have checked himself into a good psych ward, one without the horrible reputation and familiar faces he’s personally sentenced there, but he cannot imagine himself doing so.
Seeing patterns where they do not exist is an evolutionary phenomenon. The neurological functions that allow him to solve cases are the ones causing him to see the outline of a bat among the wall’s cracks. If he is hurting everyone in his life, what he needs is to face the consequences of his actions without armor. Only then can he do what must be done.
Throwing money at Arkham has led to virtually no improvements. He intended to oversee every spent penny personally, just as he intended to oversee the GCPD, every block in Gotham, and his own company. The details were lost through the haze of sleep deprivation and unsolved murder cases. Batman takes precedent above all other responsibilities. Lucius can handle his company. Gordon can do the best he can. Bruce can feel the shape of every spring in his mattress. He does not want to know how old it is.
He’d be deluding himself to think getting better is an option. Batman cannot exist if he’s stable, and he cannot live with himself if he isn’t Batman. There has been no real choice since that night in the alley all those years ago. He lost his childhood. He lost his family. He lost years of his life afterwards to a black hole of depression, hardly able to look even Alfred in the eyes. He barely remembers holidays, only going through the motions to please Alfred and honor his mother. Every small celebration in his teenage years was viewed through a dark fog, the rituals often missed altogether. He had no choice but to die. He chose to be reborn.
“Alfred, I transferred complete control of my primary bank account to you. Please take care of the manor while I’m gone. I hope you understand my decision. Goodbye.”
This wasn’t the first time he unthinkingly led Alfred to believe he’d killed himself. That isn’t a mistake you should make more than once, especially to someone as stern and worried as him. The first day he was allowed visitors, Alfred smacked him across the face. The sting was minor, but a fight with Croc is less intense than the relief and anger in Alfred’s face accompanying the action. Bruce apologized immediately.
Alfred gave him a world-weary look he’s seen far too many times, and said, “Do try to get better, Master Bruce. I respect your decision, but I want the next time I see you to be on the car ride home.”
After that visit, Alfred wasn't allowed back anyway.
It didn’t take much to check in. The core of his trauma is in the tabloids next to every mention of his name. His PTSD and depression diagnoses are on his record. If the persona melts away, and he looks into a doctor’s eyes as himself, his tired, empty eyes should be enough to warrant treatment.
It was hard to open up about anything further without revealing his secrets. He expected this; he certainly didn’t expect it to be easy, but the sheer amount of his life that was overtaken by Batman grew increasingly obvious as he tried to find anything else to share.
Eventually, he found a thread: being unable to save his parents led to a compulsive need to save everyone else. If he used the philanthropy angle, a few stories about bombed galas, he could preserve his identity while working through the emotional core of everything. When he talked about sneaking away with the unshakable feeling that he needed to dismantle the bomb himself, they accepted that he was legitimately a danger to himself and others.
Comparatively, at least, he needs to get better. If he can live through this, if he can justify his actions, he can go on. Batman can return. He needs to. His city needs him.
Bruce has had therapy with Doctor Thompkins most of his life, and she knows the truth, but sessions became more and more sporadic over recent years, until they stopped all together. Alfred insists that he needs at least eight hours of sleep a week, and the rest of the time, he is needed.
Attempting to sleep every night at Arkham has been hard. Some nights he doesn’t sleep at all. By the time the sun rises, his normal bedtime, knuckles rap on his door announcing breakfast, then, therapy. Every other day, he sees Doctor Leland. His slot is later in the afternoon, at least. The sessions are hard enough without the fog of morning.
Batman has met Doctor Leland, and she is the best doctor in the entire facility. This is beyond personal belief; a majority of Arkham’s staff are hardly qualified. That is not an issue money can fix; the people who tend to work at Arkham either can’t get work elsewhere, or have some kind of fascination with the unusual clientele. Harleen wasn’t the first doctor turned patient.
Leland is unusual. She believes in her ability to make progress with every patient, not due to ego or obsession, but respect. As a result, she has had genuine success cases in a way others have not; though, not with his rogues. He suspects she’s kept to less costumed in an attempt to drive the facility’s success rate up without driving her out. He might be her most high-profile patient.
Bruce respects her, but barely tells her anything. He’s careful to tell the truth, which results in limited details. She continues to smile warmly, making hardly any progress, and Bruce continues to smile fakely, digging himself a deeper hole.
It’s a few days before Bruce is allowed in the rec room. A majority of inmates are allowed to interact, monitored by heavy security, including his rogues gallery, so he had to be deemed able to handle it for his own safety, which is incredibly ironic. He thinks about this while playing solitaire at an empty table, aware of the fact most eyes are on him except for Harvey Dent, who is pointedly avoiding eye contact. He is able to hone in his focus sharply, queen of spades to king of hearts, until a distant, distinctive laugh makes him jerk his head up from the cards.
Joker’s eyes lock with Bruce Wayne’s the moment he walks into the rec room. He freezes mid-quip, causing his escorts to crash into him, but before they can react, he begins howling with laughter. A guard on each side slam his arms against the wall, another bracing himself in front, a hand to a bulging pocket, and one next to him, taser already drawn. Joker’s eyes don’t leave Bruce’s, even as his laughter wanes.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm yourselves, I was just surprised to find Bruce Wayne in a place like this,” Joker scoffs, and the four guards make him continue his walk to the corner, with a small TV. They turn on the screen without volume, and stay around him in a circle. Bruce can’t see the screen, but Joker’s eyes remain mostly glued.
Occasionally, the Joker manages a glance over to Bruce Wayne, who can’t look away. Even from across the room, Bruce thinks he can see longing in Joker’s eyes, as if daring him to approach. The television is muted, and Joker’s expression gives no hints. He runs his finger on the edge of a card. He’d flipped it over, but hasn’t yet looked at the outcome. Joker’s smile widens at something on the TV, but he’s distracted. Bruce cannot stay away any longer. He slaps his card down and gives up on his game. He reaches Joker in seconds, and the guards immediately intercept him. He meets the confused expressions with a smile, though it then occurs to him how bizarre his confidence must be.
“Relax, fellas, I just want to introduce myself. You can grant me that, can’t you?” Bruce says, peering around to meet Joker’s widening gaze. Wile E. Coyote opens a box from Acme on the television screen.
“This guy is bad news, rich boy, you’re playing with fire here.” The guard delivers the line like it's a big moment for him.
“I have more experience with danger than you might think,” Bruce says with a wink.
One guard groans and steps aside, not wanting to deal with him anymore, and not caring enough to really protest. The other shrugs and follows suit, saying, “Your funeral, Wayne.” Bruce ignores them.
“Bruce Wayne. I don’t think we’ve met,” he says. He extends his hand, which Joker looks at before pointedly glancing down at his restraints. His bitter laugh seizes him like a cough, but his frustration doesn’t color his mood long. His glee is barely restrained as he speaks.
“My, my, are you sure we haven’t met before? I feel like I would have danced with someone of your caliber at least once. Some dark night…” He grins. “Oh, maybe at a gala? Maybe a masquerade! I know I’ve crashed one of those, it would have been hard for us to properly see each other’s faces around the masks…” Joker’s grin widens. “Of course, I could be wrong. It’s hard to keep billionaires straight in this town!” He laughs again, longer this time, and the guards tense.
“Oh, I see he’s in no position to cause me any harm now, and I can handle my own,” Bruce says to the guards. He knows he can handle the Joker in a fight, but he isn’t quite telling the truth. He knows the man can cause him serious harm if he lets too much information slip. He doesn’t know when or how Joker figured out his identity. Joker's grin is so wide his lips start to crack. Bruce needs to speak to him in private.
“Oh, I bet you can,” Joker says with a wink, voice dropping to a flirtatious tone. Bruce’s eyes widen slightly. He’s used to Joker’s flirting, but it’s typically part of a different routine. It’s a lot stranger standing a cinder block wall away from daylight in a thin, gray uniform.
“I’ve had a little bit of self-defense training. My therapist recommended it when I was thirteen to help cope with my PTSD. She said feeling as if I’m able to fight the criminals in Gotham who could put my life in danger would be healthy.” Bruce’s tone is flat, but the corners of his mouth almost lift. It is absurd that he’s trying to make the Joker laugh.
He doesn’t know why he’s more comfortable opening up to the homicidal clown than any of the Arkham staff, but he can't deny that having someone in here know who he is, even if it is the Joker, after days of lying, feels good. To his credit, Joker does not expand on what he finds so funny.
“It’s good to see you again, Brucie my boy, even with these strange circumstances,” Joker finally replies, after choking down laughter. The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability Bruce can see on his face, takes him aback. Even worse is the fact Bruce feels the same way. He smiles softly at the Joker, not wanting to voice that, but feeling an intense need for him to know.
“This is the most interesting conversation I’ve had here, honestly.” He says instead, “Same time next week?”
Joker laughs and laughs, a genuine and gleeful laugh. The guards grab him, but Bruce knows that the laugh is without malice. He doesn’t say anything, though, and just watches the Joker get taken away, back to his cell.
It’s less than a week. Joker, not normally allowed in group therapy, somehow ends up sitting in the seat next to Bruce. Doctor Leland, though certainly familiar with this crowd, has never been put in charge of their counseling before. Sitting across from Joker, she hides any nerves well.
“Lots of familiar faces in here, eh, Bruce?” Joker says with a grin, “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ve hit it off, haven’t we? I’ll keep you safe from all the scary villains.”
“I still hate that classification,” Pamela Isely says with a tired sigh, “I don’t see how caring about the environment makes me a bad guy. The corporate scumbags killing our planet are the real murderers.”
“No matter how noble your cause is, killing ‘corporate scumbags’ still counts as murder,” Bruce replies without thinking.
Isley's eyes are on him immediately. They're the color of algae, the kind that coats the entire surface of a pond until all the fish underneath start to suffocate on CO2. Her skin is similar, though currently much duller. Her exposure to sunlight is severely limited in Arkham. He doesn't know how legal that is, but there isn't really a precedent for people with chlorophyll pumping through their veins. If she gets direct sunlight, she gets direct access to plant life, and that's her ticket out.
“Bruce, Wayne Enterprises is cleaner than most, so you earn a measly ounce of my respect for doing the bare minimum, but you should maybe question why you’re immediately siding with the examplative corporation here. There’s some bias to explore there.”
Though her current life plan is terrorism, Isley's fought tooth and nail through her fair share of Socratic seminars and academic discussions. She knows to persuade powerful figures when she can, and she knows how to do it. She never needed pheromones to win arguments, only flattery.
“I’m not siding with them, I think they’re despicable, I just want them to pay in prison instead of in the grave.” His verbal objection to killing, though entirely true, was reflexive at best.
Isely laughs. “Have you seen our country’s justice system? I know you benefit from its corruption. Anyone rich enough can get off without much fuss. Hell, Oswald here will be out within a month.” Cobblepot, who appears to be trying to fall asleep, tiredly waves at the mention of his name. “Our legal system does not deliver justice. I think my methods are justified.”
“Joe Chill has an apartment on Park Row," Bruce says, "Legally, I can’t even go near him.”
“I have no idea who that is.” Isley's neutral expression leaves no creases in her face. Her eyes, that suffocating algae green, stare at him without the care to focus. Her arms remain crossed, autumn green skin appearing even duller against the gray uniform.
“When I was eight years old, I watched him kill my parents. Now, he lives just a few blocks away from that spot outside the theater, a free man." Bruce's eyes leave Isley, focusing instead on the dirty tile floor. "He served his time and was let out. He can live his life in freedom without enough regret for what he’s done, and I’m stuck holding the burden of that night forever.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce. That’s genuinely awful,” Isley replies in what might have been an attempt at sincerity, but her voice falls flat and apathetic.
“Bruce, I fought to have his sentence extended, but he really didn’t know who your parents were. It was entirely random, and he couldn’t be convicted of anything beyond second-degree. Plus, I was fresh on the job and they knew my bias. I wasn’t actually allowed on the case,” Harvey says quietly, “But we all know my old career was bullshit! The system is broken and we can’t keep anyone who deserves it down! They can’t even keep us down! I assume you know we’re never in here long, old friend. The least you can do is check the papers since you never fucking visit! Harvey here is hurt, really. Bet you just can’t stand looking at us.”
Bruce maintains level eye contact with Dent. At this point, he’s entirely unphased by the disfiguration. His single-faced friend Harvey Dent, district attorney, is stranger to imagine now. “I’m sorry, Harv. I didn’t realize you’d want to see me after everything. If I just did something more, Maroni would’ve never-”
“Oh, cut the bullshit. What the hell could you have done, huh? You weren’t even in the courtroom that day. It was our own government system and the petty revenge of some shitty mob boss that set me up, not you. Stop being so fucking narcissistic; it’s not about you!” Two-Face snarls, lips curling back and eye widening, making his expression nearly symmetrical. Then, the mobile side of his face begins to relax, separating the halves once again. “I remember you used to want to kill Joe Chill. I know he filed a restraining order against you eventually. There weren’t any details, but I saw it. I checked up on his file every now and then, just in case. All this time I’ve wondered, but haven’t asked: Did you actually try to do it?”
“Yes.” He tells the truth more readily to Harvey than he would anyone else in Arkham. He owes him that much.
“Ohoho, this is interesting.” Joker giggles, leaning forward with his hands resting on Bruce’s shoulder. He notes that Joker isn’t restrained and wonders why.
“Why didn’t you?” Harvey asks, both eyes burning into Bruce’s.
“He was pathetic. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t really know who I was--”
“Not everyone can pick that perfect jawline out of a crowd like myself, eh, Brucie?”
“--and he was just scared. I left him with nothing more than a few bruises.”
“Should’ve finished the damn job,” Two-Face grumbles, “What a cop-out.”
“Would you have rather filed paperwork for my homicide charges?”
“I know you, Bruce, you’re smart and you’re rich. You would’ve had some plan to cover your tracks, and it probably would've worked." Harvey, with a fist, absentmindedly pulls at a string on his left sleeve as he speaks. "The fact he knew it was you just means you broke your plan.”
“You know I would be the first suspect called in, even without evidence.”
“Yes, and I know you would have shaken it--even if you didn't have enough dough to bust yourself out of any institution." The left half of his shirt is already frayed at the bottom. "We all know Oz is leaving soon, and we know you’ll be out as soon as you want to be.”
“If I may interject,” Doctor Leland says, breaking her silence, “Bruce has proved himself in need of rehabilitation, and we will keep him here until he is stable enough to resume his regular life. This session has been very enlightening, so I thank you all, but know that I take the rehabilitation of my patients very seriously and do not intend to let anyone leave if they have medical need to stay, no matter how much money they have.”
Just then, the door opens. “Oswald Cobblepot?” He jumps, pretending to be awoken from his nap. “You have just been approved for release. You have twenty minutes to gather your things. I will walk you to your cell if you’re ready.” He smiles smugly at everyone as he stands and walks towards the orderly.
“Farewell, everyone. Keep saying good things about me. Maybe I’ll catch you on the outside--if you’re lucky.” With a final wave, he heads out with the orderly. When the door closes, all eyes are on Leland.
“He’s fairly mentally stable anyway.”
“Let’s look at this origin story, shall we?” Joker rises to his feet, one hand still resting on Bruce’s shoulder, the other on his chest. He clears his throat dramatically, and in a stuffy accent, addresses the group. “Once upon a time there was a little boy who looked like a penguin. Everyone made fun of the boy because he was unsettling to look at and speak to. Only birds would talk to him. By the time he grew into a weird little penguin man, he was tired of feeling powerless and used money and murder to fill the void. Clearly, he hasn’t filled it, and is still miserable, all alone with his birds, money, and goons. The end.”
“Comparatively," Leland retorts, and Joker laughs. He supposes she makes an exception to her normal professional attitude when regarding the Joker. He isn’t her patient, and beyond that, it’s a smart call if done right. He only responds to humor, but he just as easily exploits it, like he did with Doctor Quinzel. Bruce is glad she’s out of Gotham; she deserves her space.
“Is this meeting adjourned yet? I need some sunlight.” There are reinforced windows Isley is allowed to visit under strict restraint.
“I suppose the disruption might make it harder to continue. I can call someone over to walk you out. Harvey?”
“I’m done too. I’ve gotten everything I wanna know out of this prick.” He shoots Bruce a look. “It was nice talking to you again, really,” he says, half his mouth curled into a soft smile.
“You too, old pal.”
“Oh fuck off,” Two-Face replies, rolling his eyes and turning back to Leland as she stands on the phone. The scars and his exposed teeth, glistening under the buzzing lights, are all that remain visible to Bruce.
“That was enlightening, Bruce. Did Chill see your whole face in the dark or just the important parts? How did you tell him it was you?” Joker says, getting close while the other two are distracted, and keeping his voice down.
“I said I was a friend,” Bruce says quietly, looking into Joker’s earnest eyes, mere inches from his own. Though this closeness would be normal during a fight, or if Joker had him restrained, seeing him like this without the element of danger somehow gives him the same thrill. He doesn’t know why he’s being so honest, but doesn’t really seem to care.
“And that line worked? Ha! I guess putting a restraining order on your friend is more difficult than you. I wonder how many people have tried...” Joker starts laughing without leaning away, and Bruce doesn’t visibly react.
“In group therapy, you revealed that you planned to murder Joe Chill, and nearly did so,” Leland says at their next one on one session.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind sharing how?” Her pen clicks a single time. Her eyes remain on Bruce.
“You see, doc, if I share my genius plan for how to get away with murder, then suddenly I can’t get away with murder.”
“Bruce-”
“That wasn’t a good joke, I know. I have no intentions of killing anyone. I really hate murder.”
“Hmm.”
“Is ‘I hate murder’ a hmm worthy statement?”
“Kind of, when paired with planning a murder, making a joke about planning a murder, and being close with the Joker.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re close.”
“He would.”
“He says a lot of things.”
“I’ve seen you smile at him. You seek him out specifically, even when plenty of others are present, or you would be fine alone. You just made a joke about murder that, though I don’t find funny, I know matches his sense of humor.”
“What are you saying?”
“Just that you’ve developed an unlikely friendship with the Joker.”
“It’s circumstantial." Bruce's voice remains even. "It's only been a few days.”
“So," Leland's voice remains even as well. "Your intended homicide?”
“Ever since that night in the alley I wanted to kill the man who killed my parents. You can’t blame me for having that childish fantasy, that black and white mentality. An eye for an eye, one life for three. I grew out of it, like any childish fantasy. You’re familiar with the pre-moral phase of Kohlberg’s theory of-”
“Yes, Bruce. You might be able to guess that I might be familiar with basic psychology.”
“I grew into my own moral code and haven't killed anyone."
"When you checked yourself in here, you expressed that you think you are a danger to yourself and others, but so far, Joe Chill is the only person you've seemed to have been an active danger to. What really made you check yourself into Arkham?"
"I've told you, ever since my parent's death I've felt an intense need to protect everyone which has led to me putting myself in harm's way."
"Bruce, I know you want me to help you," Leland says, "That's why you checked yourself into this institution; you want help, but I can't help you if you don't open up to me."
Bruce is silent. His mind is racing, trying to put together an honest answer that does not give away his identity, but he's said all he can think to say. He made his story, and he's stuck with it. The session ends.
"Bruce, I'm here to help you," Leland says earnestly as she leads him to the cafeteria.
"I know," Bruce replies, but doesn’t look her in the eyes.
After he settles at an empty table with his food, he's surprised to see Joker walked into the lunch room by a single guard.
"Oh, don't make me sit over there alone! That's so incredibly boring, and you know how I get when I'm bored. Take me over to Brucie! Hello there, buddy’o’pal of mine! Bruce is a good friend, you know."
"You're delusional, Joker," The guard says with a snarl
"Only sometimes, but these meds make it hard," he replies with a laugh.
"He can sit over here, I really don't mind," Bruce says, surprising himself.
"You sure, Wayne?" The guard gives him a skeptical look. He doesn't recognize the man, so he assumes news of his comradery with the Joker hasn't spread far. He grimly thinks that will change soon.
"He's the most interesting guy here, honest. Makes good conversation." Bruce flashes him a billion dollar grin, and that was enough.
"Aww, you flatter me." Joker says, and manages to pull away from the guard to skip over to Bruce and sit down close to him. The guard exclaims in surprise and rushes after him. "The meds may lessen my delusions, but some of the paranoid loonies in here always think they're being watched. Even when the guard's backs are turned, they feel eyes from every corner." He's still smiling, but it's without humor, and Bruce gets the message immediately. "Rather Strange , wouldn't you say?" He adds, right when the guard catches up.
“Don’t do that, Joker, if you try that again, I have the means to detain you.”
"Not on the first date, what kind of clown do you take me for? Please just take a seat at that table there, and let me talk to my friend.” The guard bristles, but must not care enough to argue. Joker has that effect on people.
"I think it was unwise for you to have shaken loose Hugo after me. You wouldn't want tighter restrictions, would you?" Not his best wordplay, but Hugo is a hard name to work into a sentence. Joker noted the strange wording with a grin.
"I think it's Strange that I was allowed in the cafeteria at all. Normally I'm kept a sad, lonely clown--funny thing, you know--but higher powers must have aligned to let me hang out with my dear buddy Bruce."
"We have been getting a decent amount of time together these past few days, do you normally get to see other people this much?"
"Oh don't you fret about me seeing other people, I'm strictly monogamous." His wink wasn't flirtatious, it was conspiratorial.
Hugo Strange’s impressive credentials are primarily from his years as a private psychologist, which makes the proof incredibly hard to track. There’s nothing in particular Bruce has found, since Strange has not been very high on his to-do list, but the man has the disposition of someone with a lot to hide. Takes one to know one.
The notoriety of the institution has not improved in the years since he took his position as head. Even being shown Arkham’s best behavior, the apathetic guards and cracked walls make him wonder where all his donations go.
“Anyway! Enough about this place, I hear you’re a playboy, hm?”
“That’s what the press likes to say,” Bruce replies.
“I bet it takes skill to really play with you. I’m sure you have a lot of suitors, but I don’t think the press sees who you’re really after,” Joker’s serious grin is long gone, but this one is intense. His eyes burn with an emotion Bruce would rather not think about, but he can’t look away. He’s suddenly aware of how close the Joker’s seat is to his.
“And who might that be?”
“I think you’re drawn to darkness. You like people who can challenge you, people who can win against you, but might let you get them next time. Your reputation precedes you, almost everyone you meet bends to your whim, and you like the ones who can bend you right back.” His voice is low, and it’s incredibly clear to Bruce that this is something Joker has thought about a lot.
“And what gives you that idea?” Bruce manages to say, heart caught in his throat.
“Oh just a hunch. I personally know at least one person who’s stolen your heart. She’s good at that sort of thing. I’d like to think I know more. I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Who else are you implying?” Bruce asks, but Joker just laughs.
Bruce’s schedule quickly aligns with Joker’s. They get the same rec room time, cafeteria time, and the group therapy sessions become more frequent. The other patients present--still primarily his rogues--rotate, except for the Joker, who keeps his seat next to him with a grin. Joker's security has been lessened greatly; Bruce hasn't seen the restraints since his first week and the group of guards from that first day in the rec room have been cut down to one--one Bruce has seen Joker easily evade. Whatever angle Strange is playing, he's putting the lives of every patient and employee the Joker now crosses paths with at risk. Unless…
No. There's no way he can know that Bruce is capable of detaining him. If he thinks he is, it has to be purely due to his strange comradery with the Joker, some emotional angle, not because he knows. It's impossible to prove a link between Bruce Wayne and Batman, he's made sure of it, but it is possible to guess, and to wait for proof to surface on its own…
"You recognized me."
"Hm?" Joker looks up from his paper, purple crayon in hand. Bruce thinks it's demeaning that crayons are the only writing utensils provided; Joker thinks it's hilarious to treat highly intelligent super criminals like preschoolers and put them in the same room as people genuinely seeking help.
"That first day, you recognized me." Bruce has been wanting to ask countless questions on the matter, but struggled to form a single one without revealing anything. It took a few sleepless nights before he allowed himself to fully confront the significance of Joker figuring out his secret beyond the strange comfort having someone know provides, because confronting that fact means confronting how much Joker knows. Everyone close to Bruce Wayne, Alfred, Dick…
"Oh yes, of course!" Joker clasps his hands together. "You see, Brucie, when you know a lot about someone--tabloids and all, hard not to--you pick up on things!"
"But you said it was dark, hard to see, what did you recognize?"
"Oh, everything about you." His gaze is intense, the cheesy grin becoming more serious. "You do have an incredible jawline, as I’ve said, but it's more than that. The way you hold yourself, the way you speak… as if everything is calculated, but the numbers are running unbelievably fast. Purpose and impulse; you lash out and are honestly stupid sometimes, but you're oh so smart. It shows in the micromovements of your face, in the clenching of your muscles…" His expression gets slightly more distant the more he speaks, but snaps back, more intense than before, when he continues, "I know you and could recognize you anywhere."
Bruce's mouth is dry and it's hard to form words after that, but he has to know. "Flattered, really, but after only two weeks together and our paths briefly crossing outside, isn’t it Strange to know me that well?" Joker's expression darkens.
"Well, I have felt free as a bird since you've joined me here." The humor is missing from his voice. "Do you play chess?'
"Occasionally…"
"Fun game, one little thing: I hate when I'm stuck moving as a pawn."
Bruce nods. Yes, and...
"Then we can be king and queen. Both in the same kingdom, that way even the player cannot pit us against each other like he's intended." Joker's voice is much quieter than normal, Bruce assumes it's to make up for his code being fairly obvious. "Chess is war. We set up the pieces and expect the pawns to just fight each other, sadistic bastards can't help it. They just go crazy on each other, huh? Can't control themselves? No pacifistic angle imaginable! No emotion! You can't call checkmate on a pawn, they're just dead. Sometimes it's hard to help, sometimes the lines between the squares are blurry, the colors are shifting, and suddenly there's blood everywhere when I really wanted at least one hostage and knew Batsy would be pissed, but I'm not just some mindless-"
"Joker." Bruce grabs his shoulder, "Breathe."
“Ugh, how humbling,” He groans, pressing his hand to his forehead, avoiding eye contact, “You know how explosive my temper is, my dear. No need to worry your pretty head over little ol’ me.”
“You said I’m smart.”
“I did indeed. I also said you’re incredibly stupid.” Joker looks back up from the table, gaze tired.
“Noted. I also consider myself smart, but sometimes when,” He pauses, trying to think of a way to work in the chess code. He switches gears. “I didn’t figure it out until now, and it’s only a working theory.” He says plainly, the full uncloaked meaning. Joker’s strained, false grin loosens. “Talking about you, of course. You tell me about myself, say you know me, but I’ve picked up some things about you.” Joker’s eyebrows raise slightly, noting the pivot. Retroactive coding is sloppy, but Bruce found it necessary. “You’re incredibly smart. Smarter than anyone gives you credit for, they all think you’re just chaos, completely random, but you know everything. The fact it’s all so funny to you is because you can see everything leading to your punchline. When something slips past, when something’s unnoticed, sometimes it’s funny, but sometimes it challenges what you think you know. Challenges your sense of control. Makes you feel vul-”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” His smile is gone, expression unreadable for a moment, before it returns; fake, but not strained. “It’s taken doctors years to get an ounce of an accurate read on me. I’ve read my file, have you? Thrilling stuff. I like the story about the clown abandoned for having too big of a smile. I didn’t even do a good job changing the details when lifting that one from Dumbo ; I thought that doctor looked as if she went to Disney World more often than she visited family, and then when I saw her Mickey Mouse tattoo, I couldn’t help but laugh. She didn’t even pick up on my game! What a shame, probably prefers The Little Mermaid or something equally boring over the only good movie that damned mouse ever made. Point is, no one can nail down my character. Ruins the whole mystery. Do I know everything? Do I know nothing? Do I even have psychosis or are these meds just making me tired and constipated for no reason at all? These are questions that keep everyone here up at night until they finally stop caring. Oh, and when they stop caring, it’s exquisite. They climb the mountain in search of the truth, and then reality hits and they fall into the sky, never to be the same again, and I get to play that little role in their lives by explaining that I ran off with a mouse and got drunk as a child, resulting in my first hallucinatory experience. Hilarious!”
“See how I let you get through your monologues?” Bruce says, “Plus, everything I say is just theory, unless I’m right and I really do know you. Your reaction makes me think so.”
“But I made Doctor Quinzel think she knew me, and that worked far too well. She was far clingier than I expected, ugh. Useful, though. No idea where she ran off too.”
“I wouldn’t know. I stick to Wayne Enterprises and charity events, mostly. Maybe blow off some steam in one of my vacation homes if I get too restless.”
“Ha! No, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s easy to forget that you’re just some boring billionaire. Sometimes, as we talk, you almost seem human.”
“I could say the same.”
“Ah, touché, old pal,” Joker says, laughing softly. His smile is gentle enough to transform his face without creasing it, a rarity to see. Bruce swallows, trying to dismiss the lump in his throat.
“You mean it, right?”
“I rarely do, be more specific.”
“King and queen?”
“Absolutely, my queen,” Joker replies with a grin.
“Hold on," Bruce says, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, "Why exactly am I the queen?”
“I’ve thought this through. The queen is incredibly valuable and can go almost anywhere, get into all the exclusive clubs and onto all the highest rooftops, and absolutely annihilate anyone in her way if she so chooses. I heard about your self defense courses, Brucie, and consider me intimidated.”
Bruce keeps his expression unreadable.
“And I, my darling, am clearly the king.”
“No further explanation?”
“Your job is to keep me safe, even if I have a habit of starting trouble myself. Whoops! I have all the power and all the class, and you do my bidding.”
“I don’t think that’s the king and queen dynamic in chess…”
“Are you scolding me for mischaracterizing little figures that don't actually have personalities? Seriously? I’m weaving this glorious fiction for you and you try to tell me that I am wrong?”
“I-”
“You’re really insufferable, you know that?” Joker has more genuine fondness in his voice than Bruce thinks he’s ever heard from him.
“I’ve been told.”
“Often?”
“On occasion.”